


Lay Your Sleeping Head, My Love

by phantomile



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon Compliant, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 16:53:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14835506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomile/pseuds/phantomile
Summary: Casual contact during practice, assisted stretches, a fleeting touch here or there, cuddling Makkachin… it had just been enough to keep his head above water. And now he feels so full he wonders if he might spill over, crying for joy into the hair at the nape of Yuuri’s neck. Perhaps he should drink less next time.5+1 times Victor crawled into bed with Yuuri





	Lay Your Sleeping Head, My Love

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to be the bed sharing I wished to see in this world.

1\. Hasetsu, mid-summer

While Victor has certainly imagined falling into bed with Yuuri Katsuki before, he had not considered it happening quite so literally. 

 

How did he get here? He traces the thread of his memory back as quickly as he can before it is lost (hoping that he might be able to recreate these circumstances), but he is already struggling to focus on anything other than feeling... 

 

It didn’t take long after Yura left three months before for life to fall into the steady routine of rigorous training. Hasetsu’s summer is hotter than he’s used to so he’s grateful for Yuuri’s dedication to practice keeping them at the Ice Castle more often than not. 

 

Their time outside the Ice Castle has also been encouraging. Though Yuuri is slower to open up than Victor would have initially preferred, he is learning to be a patient man and finding that any progress made in getting closer to Yuuri has felt that much more rewarding. Perhaps he had been expecting an explosion of fireworks upon their reunion, but evenings on the beach with sparklers have kindled an unfamiliar, quiet pleasure of their own.

 

The Katsukis have been welcoming to Victor since his arrival and they’ve accepted his place in their lives as a semi-permanent fixture so long as Yuuri’s training continues. Hiroko teaches Victor to write his name in katakana and offers gentle corrections when she sees him practicing in the dining area in the margins of discarded newspapers. Mari is not shy about asking Victor to lend her a hand when she sees that he’s unoccupied. Toshiya encourages Victor to watch soccer games in the dining room with everyone, and even though the significant language barrier remains there’s something absolutely universal about drinking while watching sporting events.

 

Sagan Tosu had an evening game tonight and Toshiya had been generous with sake. Victor has tried to be better about drinking since things with Yura were resolved because he needs to be a good coach for Yuuri, but tomorrow is an off day and maybe he’s drunk enough now to admit to himself that he wants to bask in Katsuki hospitality now and then. He wants to feel like he has earned acceptance into their fold, and not like an outsider imposing on them, and if he has to learn to care a little bit about soccer then that’s a small price to pay to feel a little more like he belongs here right now. 

 

Eventually the game ends but the team won so everyone drinks more to celebrate and when Victor stands he finds himself swaying more than he expected to. He says goodnight and makes his way cautiously upstairs, imagining all the ways he might misstep and fling an arm out and punch a hole through a paper screen.

 

“Makkachiii~n,” He calls softly in down the dark hallway, unsure of where she may have insinuated herself while he was downstairs.

 

He peeks into his room sees her at the foot of his bed. He furrows his brow in thought for a moment before tottering down the hallway a few more steps to Yuuri’s door. He’s been in Yuuri’s room a handful of times, but never for long. He rests his head on the door, eyes closed, and imagines any number of scenarios that will never play out. He is suddenly and acutely alone and apart from everyone. 

 

Sober Victor has given up on all but the most innocuous forms of physical contact with Yuuri. Drunk Victor is ready to try again, to lay his heart on the line, fully expecting to slink back to his room and spend another emotional night holding Makkachin a little tighter than usual. 

 

“Yuuri” He whispers. Did he whisper? Tried to whisper. He knocks on the door just to be safe in case he really had whispered, dragging his knuckles down more like a dog pawing than a grown, professional man who knows how to knock. 

 

“Yuuu-uuu-uuri~,” He croons into the corner of the doorframe.

 

He hears some shuffling and then, “Victor? Come in.”

 

Ah, Yuuri had earphones in. And he’s already in bed, curled up with his phone facing the window, now propped up and an elbow and looking back. Victor feels nervous, suddenly, realizing he has no reason to intrude like this and that he has no excuse for actually having done so.

 

“Yuuri! Sagan Tosu won!” He announces suddenly and unnecessarily loudly. Perhaps he’ll forgive Victor for barging in if he thinks he’s excited about soccer and needs to share this experience.

 

“Ah.” 

 

Perhaps not.

 

“Let’s play soccer with Makkachin at the beach!” Nice recovery. “You can try to kick it past Makkachin and I’ll be the goalie.”

 

Yuuri laughs a little at that. “Wouldn’t that be me against two goalies?”

 

“That’s what makes it training. You have to work hard. I am probably a very good goalie. Makka will be my guard dog and she will not let you kick me.” 

 

There were maybe some inaccuracies there but Victor had begun to demonstrate his supposed goalie prowess, leaning rapidly left or right and reaching and lunging and bouncing from foot to foot and then tripping over his own goddamn five-time-world-champion feet.

 

He doesn’t fall all at once like a felled tree, but rather pitches forward and takes several small hopping steps before ultimately failing to catch himself and banging his shin on Yuuri’s low bedframe, falling face down onto the mattress.

 

He groans and turns inward around Yuuri, wrapping an arm around him instinctively and whining an unurgent but self-pitying, “owww.”

 

Then, he inhales the scent of Yuuri’s clean hair and takes stock of the situation. 

 

Yuuri is tense even through the blanket between them, which isn’t unusual, but which is not what Victor looks for in a little spoon. Truthfully he’d rather trade places with Yuuri right now, show him how it’s done, how to relax and melt into another person and be enveloped by their warm touch and oh, he didn’t know how badly he’d wanted this. Casual contact during practice, assisted stretches, a fleeting touch here or there, cuddling Makkachin… it had just been enough to keep his head above water. And now he feels so full he wonders if he might spill over, crying for joy into the hair at the nape of Yuuri’s neck. Perhaps he should drink less next time. Or more, more, until he’s full to bursting like this all of the time.

 

It was a hot and humid day, and the night is not much of an improvement. Victor is still wearing his jinbei, and he’s hot and drunk, and he’s got his face nestled right up against Yuuri’s head, just breathing slow and steady. The air he’s breathing gets too hot too quickly, he’s slowly suffocating himself in Yuuri’s skin and — ugh — he hasn’t even brushed his teeth! But everything is too warm and too comfortable, the air thick like honey, too viscous to move against. He knows he must reek of sake, his breath will stink, he’s going to sweat horribly in his sleep, but he cannot muster up the pride to care.

 

He can, however, muster up doubt even through his heavy head and singing blood. Yuuri didn’t ask for this, hasn’t said this is ok. Although he has relaxed a bit, he still seems tense. Victor shouldn’t be here. It would be so easy to sink like a lead weight into a sea of sleep but instead he manages to bring himself to the surface long enough to tear the words, “Sorry, I’ll leave,” from his lungs.

 

There is palpable silence and Yuuri tenses his body again and just as Victor begins to move away he hears, “You can stay.”

 

Yuuri relaxes slightly, fidgets for a moment, and then offers Victor an earbud. Before the end of the first song Yuuri plays, Victor is asleep and melted comfortably against Yuuri’s back.

 

 

 

 

2\. Hasetsu, late summer

Victor is a worldly man, a living legend, sophisticated and charming to all fans and sponsors. He may forget unimportant things, but he’s clever and knows how to manipulate certain circumstances in his favor. 

 

He is also shameless enough to resort to the tactics of a preteen. If it were cold outside, he would likely “forget” his jacket in hopes of Yuuri offering his. He would wear his heart on its sleeves, even if they were likely be closer to his elbow than his wrist.

 

One night of sleeping beside Yuuri has sharpened Victor’s hunger for physical affection to a fine point and he finds himself, outside of practice, hopelessly fixated on trying to find an opening to get close to Yuuri without seeming too suspicious and scaring him off. Although he no longer bats an eye when Victor puts an arm on his shoulder or places a hand on his back to get his attention, he remains somewhat guarded. He doesn’t want to screw this up now. 

 

As it is, he has tasted the forbidden fruit of bed sharing once and is determined to do so again. Even if he does have to pretend to be more drunk than he actually is. He wants to really savor it this time, to not collapse immediately into a drunken slumber and wake up confused in an unexpected room, alone save for a glass of water and two tablets of aspirin.

 

Contrary to what Yura might say, Victor does have some shame. He has initiated and aborted this plan in various forms a few times already, always feeling the needling of his conscience too acutely to go so far as to pull Yuuri into bed with him. 

 

It doesn’t help that Yuuri remains steadfast and stone cold sober and entirely aware of how much Victor has actually had to drink. He feels judged. Probably because he knows he should be judged, because this is juvenile and underhanded. And yet…

 

One evening in late September, after successfully convincing Yuuri to come out to get tempura with him (vegetables only, but Victor is buying), he’s feeling particularly confident. The atmosphere has been comfortable all day, practice went well, and their hands have brushed past each other several times on the walk home.

 

“That one says ramen!” Victor declares excitedly, proudly, throwing an arm over Yuuri’s shoulders as they're walking home and pointing to the unlit sign of a closed restaurant.

 

Yuuri laughs and praises Victor’s reading and does not shrug his arm off, allowing them to continue on like that for several paces before it becomes clear that it’s not the most efficient way to walk, their legs bumping frequently as Victor bears too heavily into Yuuri’s side.

 

It feels too fluid, too high resolution to be real, the way Victor can feel every infinitesimal movement of his hand as his arm drops from Yuuri’s shoulder and traces down the slick material of his jacket and then there’s a small leap from the cuff and the there’s his hand, warm and steady and not twitching away like he thought it might be. And he accepts Victor’s hand in his, though he does not lace their fingers, but it grounds him when all other senses indicate that he is floating.

 

It’s not hard to spend the rest of the walk home exaggerating his intoxication. In fact, it feels safer to hide behind the excuse of (an admittedly small amount of) alcohol to protect his fragile heart should something go wrong. Surely sometime soon Yuuri will begin mocking him, calling him a lightweight, boasting about his own spectacular feats of strength and beauty under the influence.

 

Yuuri releases his hand outside the entry to Yuutopia and surges a few steps ahead of him. They get ready for bed in each others’ orbit, changing a room apart, brushing their teeth one after another, drifting elsewhere several minutes before passing one another in the hall again. 

 

“Makkachin, come with me,” Yuuri says with an audible smile from outside the closed screen door of Victor’s room. 

 

“Makkachin, I can’t handle another night of betrayal,” Victor whines with practiced melodrama.

 

This has been their evening ritual for the last two weeks. Makkachin has no discernible preference and, unless Victor is projecting, seems to be growing impatient with this game.

 

“I’ll tell you the next part of the story, Makkachin. You want to know how it ends don’t you?” Yuuri’s honeyed voice makes Victor shiver.

 

“I won’t let you steal her tonight! Makka, darling, I’ve set out your favorite blanket.” 

 

Victor crosses the room in a few steps and slides his door open dramatically, unsurprised to see Yuuri startle in front of him.

 

“Behold,” He steps aside and gestures grandly to the poodle dozing lightly on his bed, “She has chosen!”

 

Yuuri huffs performatively and makes to turn back down the hall when Victor grabs his hand and pulls him in with a sharp lurch.

 

“No! Let me gloat! See how happy she is on my bed. It is a fine bed for a dog. A soft and warm bed. Comfortable. There was never any real choice..”

 

He flops backwards with a flourish, bringing Yuuri down beside him, and laughs perhaps a bit more forcefully and nervously than intended. And yet, Yuuri laughs too and allows Victor to tentatively curl up around him once again.

 

Before there had been a blanket separating them and obscuring Yuuri’s form, but now… Perhaps in another life, Victor could have happily been a cartographer. Perhaps he could become one now, retire from skating and dedicate his life to charting the slope of Yuuri’s shoulder, the valley of his waist. His fingers move so lightly, cautiously, reverently gauging the changes in altitude in the rise and fall between every rib. 

 

Yuuri forcefully releases a breath he’s been holding and shakes the landscape like an earthquake, and Victor trace’s Yuuri’s frame upward. He draws his fingertips lightly across Yuuri’s back and up and moves them one by one tentatively from the cotton shirt collar to warm, soft skin. He scratches at the short, soft hairs at the nape of his neck the way Makkachin likes.

 

“That feels nice,” Yuuri says softly, encouraging Victor to linger a while.

 

He moves on down Yuuri’s arm and takes note of the changes in texture from hard bone to soft flesh to firm muscle, these variations all terminating in the smooth surface of fingernails. And then, before he can wander off elsewhere, Yuuri surprises him, covers Victor’s hand with his own, bends it doubled over and holds it over the epicenter of his beating heart. 

 

Victor has to fight to keep his breathing steady at first, to keep his pulse pounding in his ears from drowning out the world around him. Gradually, though, he adjusts to this brilliant new closeness. Eventually Makkachin joins them, flopping gracelessly against Yuuri, who removes his hand from Victor’s to stroke her fur lazily.

 

Later, when Victor tries to recall this moment, he will be unable to tell who fell asleep first. In spite of his efforts to maintain clarity and alertness, he finds that as Yuuri relaxes more and stills his petting hand and begins to breathe slower and deeper, he has followed enthusiastically and blindly down the path to a night of restful sleep.

 

 

 

 

3\. Cup of China

When Yuuri arrives to warm up, it’s clear he has not slept well if at all. A responsible coach would not let his skater, already clearly rattled by nerves, psych himself out with a warm-up doomed to fail.

 

At least, this is Victor’s justification as he marches Yuuri back up to his room and explains that he is to get as much sleep as he can. Coach’s orders.

 

And of course Yuuri protests, he is nothing if not stubborn after all. So really, Victor has to stay to keep him from sneaking right back out to the rink. Yuuri offers no resistance when Victor begins undressing him, unzipping his jacket and pulling off his shirt. He snaps to attention, however, when Victor reaches down to the waistband of his pants before he lightly smacks his hand away and mutters complaints that he can do that himself, avoiding eye contact. 

 

Victor fishes the eye mask out of Yuuri’s open suitcase for him and watching expectantly to make sure Yuuri puts it on before crawling into bed. Victor pulls the covers over him and then settles down deliberately on top of them. Yuuri’s only concern is that he has at least set an alarm so he takes this as permission to continue and relaxes, murmuring assurances that this is for the best.

 

If he can’t reach inside Yuuri’s mind to calm him, perhaps he can at least show his body how to let go of its tension. In the same way that he has fallen asleep precious few times to the deep, regular breathing of Yuuri against him, he tries to do this for Yuuri now. He can’t help but hear the rabbit-quick beating of the heart he’s laying just over, and he imagines that he can persuade it to slow and match his own heartbeats. Each time Yuuri squirms below him, Victor wills his muscles and bones and tendons and sinews to relax, hoping that the physical calm will flow from one body to another through osmosis.

 

He hasn’t necessarily planned to actually fall asleep, but that is the natural progression of these things. When the alarm sounds, he wakes in the same position as he fell asleep in and lifts Yuuri’s mask. If he has not slept, he has hopefully at least achieved some type of peaceful meditative limbo. Victor pushes off the bed with some reluctance and dons his scarf and coat once more, telling Yuuri to find him back at the rink when he’s ready. He spends the walk back trying to remember if he’d ever gotten help from Yakov with nerves, but dislikes the images this brings up after having had such a nice nap.

 

 

 

 

4\. Hasetsu, late November.

The drive back from the Fukuoka airport was mostly silent. Minako had greeted Yuuri and kept up small talk until they got to her car. Once Victor and Makkachin climbed into the back seat with Yuuri she had muttered something, but the only word he caught was ‘ _taxi’_. Regardless, she didn’t seem to be genuinely bothered enough to create an uncomfortable atmosphere and listened to unmemorable music on the radio while Victor and Yuuri, in their own universe in the back seat, pet Makkachin and shared lingering touches along each others’ hands.

 

Back at Yu-topia only Hiroko was awake to greet them, and she seemed to have stayed up primarily to urge Yuuri to have something for dinner before bed. He was able to manage half a bowl of miso soup before withdrawing to ready himself for sleep.

 

The day of separation had worn heavily on both of them and when Yuuri stopped at Victor’s door out of habit, Victor found that it felt wrong and instead nudged Yuuri further down the hall to his own room. They had gone through so much, emotionally and physically, separated when they needed each other most. Times like these called for the safety of a childhood bedroom, the cocoon of a twin bed.

 

And that was how they ended up like this, Yuuri on his belly having fallen asleep almost immediately, Victor propped up on his side gazing adoringly down at the smooth unblemished expanse of Yuuri’s back in the moonlight. It was almost like an ice rink, clean-surfaced and blank, singing with possibilities.

 

Victor traces his finger lazily, lightly, in compulsory figures around Yuuri’s back. He draws measured circles around the bumps of his spine, finding more solace in sketching on skin than he ever had when Yakov forced him to work on dull fundamentals. That thought thrills and terrifies him, and his heart aches in an unfamiliar, exciting way.

 

He could spend his life perfecting the fundamentals of Yuuri.

 

He had exasperated his coach by trying to spend as much of his practice in the air as he did on the ice. He thinks of how it felt to finish a practice, seeing a physical map of his motions, smooth gliding lines abruptly ending in a spot where the ice had been chipped away like an exclamation mark. And then, empty space. Flight. And then the trail continued. 

 

He leaves no traces on Yuuri tonight, contenting himself in increasingly complicated light geometric patterns, detouring occasionally to recall the places where he has similarly imprinted Yuuri’s skin before vaulting into a leap.

 

Yuuri makes a sleep sound and Victor smiles fondly, laying down on his back and encouraging Yuuri to lay on his shoulder more, to drape a leg over his, to inhabit Victor’s body the way he does his mind. Makkachin adjusts and settles again at their feet. So much has happened in such a short span of time, and Victor suddenly feels the impact of how little he has slept hitting him at full force. He feels so at peace at this moment, at the thought of all the moments to come, that he surprises himself with the thought that he’s so relieved that he could cry.

 

 

 

 

5\. Barcelona

It feels like hours since they realized they were at an impasse and decided to table discussions for the night. Time passes slowly when each breath requires precise control in order to stay silent, to hide the aftershocks of shudders that threaten to wrack Victor’s body. He can’t breathe through his nose, can’t get up to go blow it, can’t sniffle silently. The tears stopped a while ago, but it feels like a dam inside of him has burst and more could come if provoked. There’s an unfamiliar weight to his eyes, they feel so _heavy_. 

 

How does Yuuri do it? He’s curled up under the covers of his bed, appearing calm and quiet and so distant. Victor is angry, hurt, confused, more upset than he has been in a long time, but he knows that these hot-tempered feelings will pass and already he longs to reach out and close that immeasurable distance and bring himself into Yuuri for comfort and hold onto him so tightly that he’ll understand everything.

 

In lieu of counting sheep, VIctor tries to clear his head by going through the Japanese characters he has learned. He draws them in his mind methodically following the stroke order Hiroko taught him and this works until it doesn’t, when instead of imagining lifting a pen or brush he imagines a skater jumping to land at the start of the next stroke, and then his mind is back to square one. 

 

He chances breathing through his nose again but it’s impossible and he ends up gasping like he’s just broken the surface of a pool of water, and he doesn’t notice the dripping out the corners of his eyes until he hears the soft sound of a tear falling from his nose to the sheet of the bed below. He shuts his eyes tight, amplifying the pressure on them more than he thought possible. With an inadvertent shuddering sigh, composure broken again, he curls his knees up to his chest and redoubles his efforts to maintain level breaths. 

 

Maybe he should go, but there’s nowhere _to_ go to. The bathroom wall is glass. Chris is competing, he can’t burden him with this now. Yakov would only yell, and while that would at least be familiar it would be no comfort. If he goes outside someone might see him and recognize him and ask him what’s wrong. He doesn’t really even want to leave, just wants to burrow into Yuuri for reassurance, but he feels so alone with his thoughts right now.

 

And perhaps it’s because he is so utterly consumed by these thoughts, and the effort it takes to maintain a semblance of control, that he somehow doesn’t notice that Yuuri has rolled over to face him until he feels the tentative brush of fingers against his shin. He feels frightened of rejection in a way he hasn’t since he first arrived in Hasetsu. It crosses his mind that no, this is completely different, the stakes are much higher now. This does not help and he makes a pitiful sound.

 

Yuuri looks…sad. Not regretful, he’s not going to back away from his decision so easily, but Victor knows that Yuuri doesn’t want to cause him pain. And for a moment he feels stupid because this isn’t about separating, but it is about changing the fundamentals of their relationship and Yuuri making choices for Victor without regard for his thoughts or feelings and... no, it isn’t stupid, it’s just too raw right now. 

 

So when Yuuri gently lifts the covers of his bed in cautious offering, Victor wastes no time in uncurling and sliding himself in, wrapping his arms tight around Yuuri and breathing noisily and messily into his neck, shoulder, hair, chest. Yuuri holds him and strokes his hair and his back and they’re both awake for a long time, not talking but unable to stay still, communicating their mutual hurt and love through touch and hold and trust. Things are not ok right now, but they hold tight to each other and weather the storm through the night.

 

 

 

 

+1. St. Petersburg, Early Spring. 

It’s cold in St. Petersburg, but just warm enough inside Victor’s apartment (Victor _and_ Yuuri’s apartment now) that he’s managed to doze off on the morning of his off-day. He got about halfway through the current chapter of his book before laying it down on his chest, closing his eyes, and tugging a plush grey throw blanket over himself. 

 

He can’t say how much time passes in contented half-sleep before he hears the door unlock, followed by a skittering of paws and then there’s a cold nose huffing in his ear and a warm tongue on his cheek until he turns and ruffles the fur on Makkachin’s face. He smiles sleepily at her and, satisfied, she pads off to lap up some water.

 

It takes long enough for Yuuri to come to the living room that Victor has begun to drift off again. His cozy reverie is broken by a pair of cold hands thrust suddenly and cruelly against his neck.

 

“Yuuuu-ri~!” He protests, whine giving way to a yawn as he cringes and tries half-heartedly to bat the cold hands away. When he finally opens his eyes again, he finds that Yuuri has changed into a loose pair of sleep pants and a particularly soft shirt that Victor recognizes as one of his own. His heart swells and he wonders if he will ever look at Yuuri without drowning under a wave of adoration.

 

Yuuri lifts the throw blanket and settles on top of Victor, making himself at home. “It’s still early. Can I nap on the inside?” He asks. As if he has to ask, as if he ever had to. Victor would move mountains for him, so moving his own body is no trouble. He holds Yuuri secure to his chest and turns him into the couch until he’s surrounded by cushions and blankets and Victor. Their arms drape over each other and their legs tangle and Yuuri shifts and snuggles and burrows as Victor tries to warm his cold spots.

 

When Victor begins to awaken again later, he keeps his eyes shut and concentrates on the feeling of Yuuri’s hand lightly massaging his neck, tracing under his jaw appreciatively, moving up and stroking his hair gently. He savors this moment, restrains himself from immediate reciprocation in order to dedicate all of his attention to memorizing the way Yuuri admires him when he thinks he’s alone. 

 

He must sigh too contentedly eventually because Yuuri pokes his hair whorl very deliberately. Victor opens his eyes and Yuuri is already giving him a long-suffering smile before he moves to place a soft kiss on his forehead. 

 

It’s a slow day, as most of their rare shared off-days tend to be, and Victor delights in the thought of a lifetime of sleeping beside the man he loves punctuated by waking life.


End file.
